Джеффри Арчер - Heads You Win

‘I’m glad I don’t have to make the decision,’ said Charlie.

‘But you do, my darling,’ said Sasha. ‘Because I wouldn’t even consider taking on such a risky enterprise without your blessing.’

‘Have you taken into consideration how much you have to lose?’

‘Of course I have. And as Labour look almost certain to win the next election, it would be easy for me to just sit back and hope I become foreign secretary. The far bigger risk would be to resign from the Commons, return to Russia and spend a year campaigning to become president, only to see someone else snatch the prize.’

‘Especially if that someone else turned out to be your old friend Vladimir.’

‘As long as he’s Yeltsin’s bag carrier, he’s more likely to end up in prison than the Kremlin.’

‘Then let me ask you a simple question,’ said Charlie. ‘If I were to offer you both of those positions on a plate, president of Russia or British foreign secretary, which one would you choose?’

‘President of Russia,’ said Sasha without hesitation.

‘Then you have your answer,’ said Charlie, ‘and mine. Otherwise you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering, “what if?” ’

‘Do you think there’s anyone else I should consult before making such an irrevocable decision?’

Charlie thought long and hard before she said, ‘No point in asking your mother, because we both know exactly where she stands. Or your daughter, who is otherwise preoccupied. But I’d be fascinated to hear Alf Rycroft’s opinion. He’s a shrewd old buzzard, who’s known you for over twenty years, and he has that rare ability to think outside the box. And probably even more important, he’ll only have your best interests at heart.’

‘And to what do I owe this great honour, minister?’ asked Alf, as he accompanied Sasha through to the sitting room.

‘I need your advice, Alf.’

‘Then have a seat. We’re unlikely to be disturbed, as my wife, Millicent, is out doing good works. I think it’s her day at the hospital as library monitor.’

‘She’s a saint.’

‘As is Charlie. Truth is, we both got lucky in the lottery of marriage. So how can I help you, young man?’

‘I’m forty-six,’ said Sasha. ‘You used to call me young man when I first came to the constituency over twenty years ago. Now, nobody does.’

‘Wait till you reach my age,’ said Alf, ‘you’ll be only too grateful if anyone calls you young man. Now, when you called to say you wanted to discuss a private matter, it wasn’t difficult to work out what was troubling you.’

‘And what conclusion did you come to?’

‘Naturally I’d like you to become foreign secretary, then I could spend the rest of my days telling the lads at the bowls club that I was the first to spot your potential.’

‘No more than the truth,’ said Sasha.

‘I knew you were a bit special the day we interviewed you for Merrifield. So what I’m about to say, Sasha, may come as a bit of a surprise. I think you should resign from the Commons, return to Russia, and, if it’s not too dramatic a statement, fulfil your destiny.’

‘But that would mean risking everything, when there’s an easy option still open to me.’

‘Agreed, but then it’s never been your style to take the easy option. When you had the opportunity to represent a safe London seat, you chose instead to return to Merrifield and fight a marginal.’

‘There’s a lot more at stake this time,’ said Sasha.

‘As there was for Winston Churchill, when he crossed the floor of the House to join the Conservatives, because he certainly would never have become prime minister if he’d remained on the Liberal benches.’

‘But I’ve spent the last thirty years in this country,’ said Sasha. ‘So compared to crossing the floor of the House, it would be some walk to Moscow.’

‘Lenin didn’t think so, and don’t forget he was stuck in Switzerland when the Revolution began.’

‘Can’t you think of a better example?’ said Sasha, laughing.

‘Gandhi was a practising lawyer in South Africa when he sensed revolution in the air and returned to India to become its spiritual leader. So my advice, Sasha, is to go back home, because your people will see in you what I spotted over twenty years ago, a decent, honest man, with unwavering convictions. And they will embrace those convictions with relief and enthusiasm. But my opinion is no more than the ramblings of an old man.’

‘Made all the more powerful,’ said Sasha, ‘because it wasn’t what I expected.’

Sasha always enjoyed his visits to the Russian Embassy, not least because no one threw a better party than their ambassador, Yuri Fokin. Gone were the days when the building was surrounded by impenetrable barriers, and few people knew what went on behind its closed doors.

Sasha could remember when, if you asked a Russian diplomat what the time was, he would tell you the time in Moscow. Now, the ambassador would happily answer any question you put to him. All you had to decide was when he was telling the truth.

On this occasion, however, Sasha wasn’t visiting the embassy to enjoy a relaxed and convivial evening. This would be his last opportunity to gauge his chances should he decide to stand for the presidency. Among the guests would be half a dozen Russians who could influence his decision one way or the other, and he needed to make sure he spoke to every one of them. The other guests would be the usual mixture of politicians, businessmen and hangers-on, who would attend any party as long as the drinks were flowing and there were enough canapés to ensure they didn’t need to go to dinner afterwards.

Sasha’s driver took a right off Kensington High Street, and came to a halt in front of a barrier that led into Kensington Palace Gardens, more commonly known as Embassy Row. A long straight road lined with elegant town houses that rarely came onto the market.

A guard saluted, and the barrier was raised the moment he saw the minister’s car. They passed India, Nepal and France before they reached Russia. A valet rushed forward to open the back door of the limousine. The minister stepped out, thanked him, and made his way into the embassy.

The embassy could have been an English country house at the turn of the century, with its oak-panelled entrance hall, grandfather clock and portraits of historical figures. It always amused Sasha that there was no sign of a tsar, or even Lenin or Stalin. History seemed to have begun, for one of the oldest empires on earth, in 1991.

When Sasha walked into the drawing room, he noticed that some of the guests broke off their conversations, and turned to look at him; something he still hadn’t got used to and wondered if he ever would.

He looked around the packed room, and soon identified four of his targets. One of them, Anatoly Savnikov — diplomatic attaché his official title, head of the Russian secret services in London his real job — was chatting to Fiona. If this hadn’t been the Russian Embassy, Sasha might have thought he was chatting her up. No doubt there were a dozen other spies in the room who would be far more difficult to identify. The Foreign Office rule was simple enough: assume everyone is a spy.

As Sasha turned, he noticed the ambassador was deep in conversation with Charles Moore, editor of the Daily Telegraph . Sasha would have to bide his time before he had a few words with Yuri, words that had already been carefully scripted.

He made his way across to Leonid Bubka, the trade minister, hoping he might show his hand, but Bubka changed the subject every time the word ‘election’ came up in conversation. Sasha didn’t give up easily, but Bubka continued to block every attempt to score with the skill of Lev Yashin. When his old friend Ilya Resinev, the second secretary at the embassy, touched his elbow, Sasha moved discreetly to one side and listened intently to what he had to say.